The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  "Where is this pla­ce?" Jamie as­ked as she stop­ped the car in front of what ap­pe­ared to be lit­tle mo­re than a ho­vel.

  "It's my hi­de­away," she told him. "Co­me on. Get out. I ha­ve a sur­p­ri­se wa­iting for you in­si­de."

  "Have you had the pla­ce fu­mi­ga­ted for var­mints?" he as­ked jokingly.

  "The only var­mint aro­und this pla­ce is you, Jamie, my lo­ve."

  When she got out, he fol­lo­wed her qu­ic­k­ly-up the dirt path, up the ric­kety wo­oden steps, and on­to the par­ti­al­ly rot­ted wo­oden porch. When she pa­used at the do­or, he ca­me up be­hind her, slip­ped his arm aro­und her wa­ist, and nuz­zled her neck.

  She ha­ted him. Ha­ted him with a pas­si­on. It to­ok every oun­ce of her wil­lpo­wer to en­du­re his vi­le to­uch. Whe­ne­ver she tho­ught abo­ut how she might ha­ve to let him fuck her aga­in, she wan­ted to vo­mit. Don't think abo­ut it, she told her­self. Just think abo­ut what you ha­ve plan­ned, abo­ut all the de­lec­tab­le things you 're go­ing to do to him. When he's to­uc­hing you, kis­sing you, con­cen­t­ra­te on the re­ven­ge you will exact.

  The do­or ope­ned easily, cre­aking on its rusty hin­ges. She led him in­to the in­te­ri­or, lit only by ke­ro­se­ne lamps and the logs bur­ning in the fi­rep­la­ce. When she'd co­me up he­re la­te this af­ter­no­on to pre­pa­re the set­ting for Jamie's se­duc­ti­on and ul­ti­ma­te dow­n­fall, she hadn't be­en su­re the fi­rep­la­ce was in go­od wor­king or­der. They co­uld ha­ve shown up and fo­und the pla­ce bur­ned to the gro­und. But she'd had to cho­ose an out of the way pla­ce, so­mew­he­re mi­les from the ne­arest ot­her ho­use. Af­ter all, when Jamie was scre­aming in agony, she didn't want an­yo­ne to he­ar him and start sno­oping.

  "Well, I'll be dam­ned," Jamie sa­id as he lo­oked aro­und the ro­om.

  "Cozy and pri­va­te," she sa­id.

  She'd pre­pa­red a pal­let on the flo­or with qu­ilts she'd bo­ught at va­ri­o­us shops in Pi­ge­on For­ge, the kind that tho­usands of to­urists bo­ught every ye­ar. No way wo­uld an­yo­ne ever tra­ce them back to her. A bot­tle of mer­lot she'd pic­ked up at a lo­cal li­qu­or sto­re res­ted bet­we­en two fat fe­at­her pil­lows di­recdy in front of the fi­rep­la­ce. She mo­ved away from Jamie and ma­de her way over to the cor­ner, whe­re she'd pla­ced a por­tab­le ra­dio. Af­ter tur­ning on the ra­dio, she flip­ped thro­ugh the sta­ti­ons un­til she fo­und so­me soft, ro­man­tic mu­sic.

  While he wat­c­hed in fas­ci­na­ti­on, she dis­ro­bed. Slowly. Do­ing a strip­te­ase for him. The so­oner she sub­du­ed him, the so­oner the fun wo­uld be­gin. Na­ked, her ga­ze fo­cu­sed on Jamie, she sat down on the pal­let, ope­ned the bot­tle of wi­ne and po­ured the rich bur­gundy li­qu­id in­to two gre­en crystal flu­tes. What Jamie didn't know was that wa­iting in the bot­tom of one of the glas­ses was a po­tent se­da­ti­ve. So­met­hing that wo­uld ren­der him hel­p­less for a co­up­le of ho­urs. Long eno­ugh for her to pre­pa­re him for his so richly de­ser­ved re­ward for be­ing a cru­el, cun­ning, ma­ni­pu­la­ti­ve son of a bitch.

  Jamie sur­ve­yed her na­ked body, then re­mo­ved his own clot­hes and ca­me over to ac­cept the glass of wi­ne she of­fe­red him. Be­fo­re he put the glass to his lips, he grin­ned wic­kedly. "You've got a gre­at body," he told her. "Des­pi­te… well, you know."

  "So gen­de­manly of you not to co­me right out and say it." She res­pon­ded with a smi­le every bit as ge­nu­ine as his and twi­ce as wic­ked.

  He sip­ped the wi­ne. So­me che­ap stuff she'd pic­ked up at a busy sto­re whe­re she was cer­ta­in no one wo­uld re­mem­ber her. She'd be­en we­aring sun­g­las­ses and non­des­c­ript clot­hes, ma­king her­self lo­ok as for­get­tab­le as pos­sib­le. Just anot­her to­urist.

  Jamie fi­nis­hed off the wi­ne qu­ickly, then set the glass on the pal­let and re­ac­hed for her. In­si­de she crin­ged the mo­ment he to­uc­hed her, but out­wardly she res­pon­ded as most of the wo­men he'd se­du­ced had no do­ubt do­ne.

  When she pres­sed her na­ked body aga­inst his, he sig­hed lo­udly. "Oh, dar­lin', yo­ur he­art's be­ating li­ke mad and you're trem­b­ling. You're as ex­ci­ted as I am, aren't you?"

  "You can't ima­gi­ne how ex­ci­ted I am."

  The an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on was de­li­ci­o­us. It was only a mat­ter of ti­me now. Of co­ur­se she was ex­ci­ted. She co­uld hardly wa­it un­til he pas­sed out. Un­til he was ren­de­red hel­p­less and com­p­le­tely at her mercy. Oh, the mar­ve­lo­us things she had plan­ned for him. Her lit­tle bag of tricks was hid­den ne­atly away in the ot­her ro­om. Thick le­at­her straps. Sturdy ra­il­ro­ad spi­kes mat wo­uld an­c­hor so ni­cely in­to the old wo­oden flo­or in this ro­om. Ra­zors. Kni­ves.

  A po­ker that co­uld be he­ated to a siz­zling red hot in the fi­rep­la­ce fla­mes.

  When Jamie kis­sed her, she ope­ned her mo­uth and thrust her ton­gue in­si­de his par­ted lips. And all the whi­le she tho­ught abo­ut thrus­ting that hot po­ker up in­si­de him.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  "Mm-mmm," Jaz­zy sig­hed as she pla­ced her empty dish over Ca­leb's on the cof­fee tab­le. 'Tho­se we­re the best scram­b­led eggs I've ever eaten." She lo­oked over at him. He held his se­cond cup of de­caf cof­fee to his lips. ‘'Tell me, Mas­ter Chef, what is yo­ur sec­ret?"

  Caleb dow­ned the last drops of cof­fee and set his cup on top of the­ir stac­ked pla­tes. "If I told you my sec­ret to per­fect scram­b­led eggs, it wo­uldn't be a sec­ret an­y­mo­re, wo­uld it?"

  She cud­dled in­to the sof­t­ness of her fat old so­fa, sig­hed con­ten­tedly, and smi­led at him. "Thanks."

  "For what? All I did was fix you bre­ak­fast at two o'clock in the mor­ning."

  Jazzy lo­ved his smi­le. A cocky, self-con­fi­dent, clo­sed-mo­uth smi­le that hin­ted of dan­ger and mystery. He wasn't as pretty as Jamie, but he was far mo­re ap­pe­aling in every way. Damn! Why was she fal­ling in­to that sa­me old trap-com­pa­ring every man who ca­me in­to her li­fe with Jamie? Ah, Jas­mi­ne, my de­ar, don't you re­ali­ze what a bre­ak­t­h­ro­ugh you've ma­de? You've ac­tu­al­ly fo­und so­me­one who ap­pe­als to you mo­re than Jamie Up­ton.

  Jazzy la­ug­hed, the warm, ca­ref­ree fe­eling spre­ading thro­ugh her body ra­pidly. "You've do­ne mo­re than just fix me bre­ak­fast. You've pam­pe­red me, which is so­met­hing I'm not used to. And I think you've for­gi­ven me, too, ha­ven't you?"

  Caleb re­ac­hed over from whe­re he sat on the op­po­si­te end of the so­fa and brus­hed to­ast crumbs from the si­de of Jaz­zy's mo­uth. Wit­ho­ut thin­king, she ran the tip of her ton­gue aro­und the in­si­de of her lips and ac­ci­den­tal­ly lic­ked Ca­leb's in­dex fin­ger. The­ir ga­zes met and held for an en­d­less mo­ment.

  "I was wrong to jud­ge you. It's not as if I've li­ved a spot­less li­fe. What you did or didn't do with Jamie Up­ton last night wasn't any of my bu­si­ness."

  Jazzy grab­bed Ca­leb's hand just as he pul­led it away. "I didn't ha­ve sex with Jamie last night. I ha­ven't had sex with him sin­ce he re­tur­ned ho­me in Janu­ary. I ha­ven't be­en with anot­her man sin­ce I've known you."

  "Am I sup­po­se to re­ad so­me sig­ni­fi­can­ce in­to that sta­te­ment?"

  "Maybe one has not­hing to do with the ot­her. May­be it do­es. I ho­nestly don't know."

  "And that's sup­po­se to ma­ke me fe­el bet­ter how?"

  "Jamie is get­ting mar­ri­ed in three we­eks. We sa­id our go­od-byes last night."

  "You've sa­id go­od-bye to him be­fo­re and-" Jaz­zy drew Ca­leb's hand up to her fa­ce and pres­sed it aga­inst her che­ek. 'Jamie isn't the man I want." She pa­used, gar­ne­red up her co­ura­ge and sa­id, 'You are."

  He jer­ked his hand away and
sta­red at her. "Don't play ga­mes with me. I'm not the kind of guy who's wil­ling to be se­cond best. And I don't sha­re. If you're mine, you're mi­ne alo­ne. Whet­her it's for a night or a we­ek or a month. Un­der­s­tand?"

  Jazzy huf­fed. "Why did I know you'd be this way, all old-fas­hi­oned mac­ho pos­ses­si­ve?"

  "Let's lay our cards on the tab­le, so we'll both know whe­re we stand." She nod­ded.

  "I've wan­ted you sin­ce the first ti­me I saw you," he told her. "I want you now mo­re than ever. But the­re are things abo­ut myself that I ha­ven't told you. Things I won't tell you un­less…" He clic­ked his ton­gue. "Let's just say I don't ma­ke pro­mi­ses to an­yo­ne that I don't ke­ep. Do I want to fuck you? Hell, yes. Do I ca­re abo­ut you? Ye­ah, I do. Will I ma­ke a li­fe­long com­mit­ment to you if we ha­ve sex? Not ne­ces­sa­rily. But when I'm with you, I'm with you ex­c­lu­si­vely. And I ex­pect the sa­me from you. No li­es. No ga­mes. And I swe­ar I'll ne­ver hurt you."

  Emotion ca­ught in her thro­at. Te­ars stung her eyes. Jaz­zy glan­ced away, not wan­ting to fa­ce him un­til she was to­tal­ly in con­t­rol. She swal­lo­wed a co­up­le of ti­mes, to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, and tur­ned back aro­und. Why co­uldn't she ha­ve met Ca­leb when she was six­te­en? Why co­uldn't he ha­ve be­en her first lo­ve? If he'd got­ten her preg­nant, he wo­uld ha­ve mar­ri­ed her. And if an­yo­ne- his pa­rents or gran­d­pa­ren­ts-had obj­ec­ted, he wo­uld ha­ve told them to go stra­ight to hell.

  "I want you, too," Jaz­zy ad­mit­ted. "Sin­ce that first night. You'll ne­ver know how dif­fi­cult it was for me not to… well, not to use you. And if I'm ho­nest abo­ut it, I've be­en pro­tec­ting myself, too. I've be­en hurt and di­sap­po­in­ted so many ti­mes. I've be­li­eved pro­mi­se af­ter pro­mi­se. But no mo­re! I li­ke you, Ca­leb McCord. I li­ke you a lot But I'm not re­ady to ma­ke a com­mit­ment to an­yo­ne. What I want-what I ne­ed-is for us to just ta­ke things one day… one night… at a ti­me. Get to know each ot­her. See if we re­al­ly work well to­get­her. Don't push each ot­her. Just let things hap­pen na­tu­ral­ly, on the­ir own. If it works, we'll ta­ke, the next step. If it do­esn't, we'll part fri­ends, with no hard fe­elings. No one hurt."

  He stu­di­ed her as if he we­re trying to ga­uge her ho­nesty. "It wo­uld se­em that we want the sa­me thing."

  "Yeah, it wo­uld se­em so."

  Caleb sco­oted clo­ser. Jaz­zy held her bre­ath. She'd be­en wan­ting anot­her one of his de­vas­ta­ting kis­ses. He slid his hand be­hind her neck and gras­ped gently, then pul­led her for­ward, just eno­ugh to brush his lips aga­inst hers. Her bre­ath ca­ught in her thro­at. She wan­ted mo­re. So much mo­re.

  He pla­yed with her lips, fe­at­her­light kis­ses at first. Then he used his ton­gue to pa­int a mo­ist oval over her mo­uth. She suc­ked in her bre­ath. His fin­gers re­ac­hed up and spla­yed apart, for­king thro­ugh her short ha­ir to cup her he­ad. She sig­hed. And then he kis­sed her, re­al­ly kis­sed her, cur­ling her to­es and ma­king her he­art po­und fas­ter.

  This guy is a mas­ter at the art of kis­sing, she tho­ught, and then ce­ased to think co­he­rently.

  When her bre­asts we­re tight and ac­hing, her fe­mi­ni­nity clen­c­hing and un­c­len­c­hing in pre­pa­ra­ti­on, and he'd com­p­le­tely ta­ken her bre­ath away, he en­ded the kiss and lif­ted his he­ad. She ope­ned her eyes and sta­red in­to his whis­key-gold eyes. Puz­zled that he'd stop­ped just as they we­re get­ting war­med up, she ope­ned her mo­uth to ask him what was go­ing on.

  He la­id his in­dex fin­ger ac­ross her lips. 'This was our first da­te. You don't go to bed with a guy on a first da­te, re­mem­ber?"

  "Mm-hmm, I re­mem­ber." Why the hell had she ever told him that? Even if it was the truth, so­me­how that ru­le just didn't apply to Ca­leb. He was dif­fe­rent-not only dif­fe­rent from Jamie, but dif­fe­rent from every ot­her man she'd ever known. Well, may­be he was a lit­tle li­ke Jacob, who was one of the best men in the world. But the­re we­re no se­xu­al sparks bet­we­en her and Jacob. And the­re we­re eno­ugh sparks bet­we­en her and Ca­leb to set off a ma­j­or ex­p­lo­si­on.

  "I'll cle­an up the­se dis­hes, then I'll le­ave." When Ca­leb sto­od, he did not­hing to try to hi­de the fact that he had a mag­ni­fi­cent erec­ti­on.

  "You're le­aving?" Just li­ke that, he was go­ing away when they we­re both aro­used and ne­eding re­li­ef in the worst way?

  "I'll be back," he told her as he gat­he­red up the­ir dirty dis­hes. "You ne­ed so­me rest and so do I. It's"-he glan­ced at the clock on the end tab­le-"t­h­ree-fif­te­en. How abo­ut I co­me by this af­ter­no­on aro­und two-thirty? It's Sun­day. My only day off. Let Tif­fany ta­ke over at Jas­mi­ne's. We'll dri­ve over to Ga­din­burg, me­an­der aro­und thro­ugh all the lit­tle shops, and then eat sup­per at one of the ni­ce res­ta­urants."

  "I see you've plan­ned our se­cond da­te." She ro­se from the so­fa and fol­lo­wed him in­to the kit­c­hen. He put the dis­hes in­to the so­apy wa­ter whe­re he'd cle­aned the co­oking uten­sils ear­li­er. 'Just le­ave them. I'll do them in the mor­ning."

  He nod­ded and tur­ned to go, but she bloc­ked his path.

  Caleb grin­ned at her. "What?"

  "You're a ni­ce man, Ca­leb McCord."

  He la­ug­hed. 'You think so, do you? Just go­es to show how much you don't know abo­ut me."

  She step­ped asi­de, al­lo­wing him to ma­ke his way to her front do­or. She fol­lo­wed be­hind him. "Okay, so may­be ni­ce was die wrong word. You're a go­od man."

  When he glan­ced over his sho­ul­der and frow­ned moc­kingly, she ma­de one fi­nal cor­rec­ti­on to her ori­gi­nal sta­te­ment. "You’re a man with a go­od he­art."

  He win­ked at her, then wal­ked out and down the ex­te­ri­or sta­irs that led to the si­de­walk. Jaz­zy step­ped out on­to the nar­row sto­op at the top of the sta­irs and wat­c­hed him walk to­ward his car. As so­on as he got in and dro­ve off, she clo­sed and loc­ked the do­or, then dan­ced back in­to the li­ving ro­om. She hug­ged her­self and sig­hed.

  She had a se­cond da­te with Ca­leb to­mor­row. An ho­nest-to-go­od­ness da­te.

  Feeling an un­fa­mi­li­ar sen­se of hap­pi­ness, Jaz­zy hum­med softly to her­self as she he­aded for her bed­ro­om. To­night she wo­uld dre­am of Ca­leb. And may­be to­mor­row-no, la­ter to­day-that dre­am might co­me true.

  Andrea Wil­lis co­uldn't sle­ep. She had tos­sed and tur­ned for ho­urs, but she had too much on her mind to re­lax. Be­si­des, Ce­cil was sno­ring li­ke a fre­ight tra­in. So li­ke a man to be ab­le to sle­ep so­undly when his da­ug­h­ter was on the ver­ge of ma­king the big­gest mis­ta­ke of her li­fe. It wasn't that his con­cern didn't run as de­ep as hers. It did. Af­ter all, he lo­ved La­ura in a way An­d­rea had ne­ver be­en ab­le to, so­me­how ab­le to over­lo­ok all her ina­de­qu­aci­es.

  When she had first sug­ges­ted psychi­at­ric help for La­ura when she was twel­ve, Ce­cil had be­en li­vid, ac­cu­sing her of wan­ting to find fa­ult with La­ura, of lo­ving her less than she did She­ri­dan. But it was be­ca­use she did lo­ve La­ura that she'd wan­ted help for the child. Fi­nal­ly she'd be­en ab­le to bring Ce­cil aro­und to her way of thin­king, but only af­ter that ter­rib­le in­ci­dent with the Ro­berts boy. He cla­imed she had tri­ed to run over him with her car-her six­te­enth bir­t­h­day pre­sent. La­ura had be­en unab­le to re­mem­ber what hap­pe­ned that night.

  After slip­ping in­to her ho­use sho­es and sa­tin ro­be, An­d­rea crept out of the gu­est ro­om and down the hall to the ro­om the­ir da­ug­h­ters we­re sha­ring this we­ekend. When she re­ac­hed the clo­sed do­or, she pa­used for a few mo­ments, con­si­de­ring whet­her she sho­uld dis­turb them at this ho­ur of the mor­ning. Yes
, she de­fi­ni­tely sho­uldn't wa­it to talk to La­ura. And if she wo­ke She­ri­dan in the pro­cess, so be it. May­be She­ri­dan co­uld help her talk sen­se to La­ura.

  Andrea tap­ped on the do­or. No res­pon­se. She tap­ped aga­in. Still not­hing. She didn't da­re knock any lo­uder for fe­ar of wa­king Ce­cil, who was only a co­up­le of do­ors down. The Up­ton fa­mily's qu­ar­ters we­re in the ot­her wing of the ho­use, so no chan­ce of bot­he­ring them. She tri­ed the han­d­le and fo­und the do­or un­loc­ked. She ope­ned the do­or and wal­ked in­to the dark ro­om.

  "Laura," she cal­led as she tip­to­ed to­ward the bed whe­re her el­der da­ug­h­ter slept. "La­ura, wa­ke up, de­ar."

  No an­s­wer.

  When she re­ac­hed the bed, she re­ali­zed why no one had res­pon­ded. The bed was empty. She glan­ced at the ot­her twin bed. It, too, was empty. An­d­rea tur­ned on a bed­si­de lamp and se­ar­c­hed the bed­ro­om and adj­o­ining bath. Whe­re we­re her da­ug­h­ters? Don't pa­nic, she told her­self. The­re is a per­fectly go­od ex­p­la­na­ti­on for why ne­it­her of them are he­re.